“Because…” I give him a cool, pointed look. “They’re mine, and her breasts are, uh, highly augmented. They won’t fit.”
“Huh. Okay, well, you want some help?” he says, eyeing the curlers in my hair and my yoga pants.
“Yes,” I reply as I run toward my bedroom. “Can you grab me my concealer and lipstick? They’re in my purse.”
“Got it!” he calls after me.
Unlike most guys, Hugo knows what they are, having spent a lot of time with me while we were growing up. He often came by to get help with the English assignments my dad, who is a high school English teacher, gave him. Afterward, he’d hang out and see me play with makeup. In retrospect, he’s actually been a pretty accommodating cousin. None of my brothers wanted to be near me when I did girly stuff.
I pull out all the curlers and finger-comb my hair. It looks good enough, bouncy and full around my head. After swiping my face with rosewater toner to get rid of excess oil, I apply some fast makeup.
Hugo comes over and places the concealer and lipstick on my vanity.
I flash him a smile. “Thanks.”
He says, “You’re welcome,” but seems distracted, kind of staring at the vanity. Maybe it’s my brushes. I bought seven more last time I went shopping. Maybe he’s wondering if he should get some for Samantha. A woman can never have enough makeup brushes.
“Sorry I can’t spend more time with you,” I say, dusting my cheeks with blush.
“No problemo. I understand.”
I give him a grateful smile. “Thanks. Next time, I’ll treat you to something nice.”
“It’s fine.”
“I insist.” I swivel around and bump into him. I look up. Is he going to leave, or…? “Is there something?” Maybe he really does want to buy brushes for Samantha and needs some help.
His face turns red. “No. Uh… Nothing. I…” He clears his throat.
I smirk. “What, did you grab a tampon in my purse before finding the concealer and lipstick?” He can get so uncomfortable about certain female products.
“No! That’s not… Anyway.” He clears his throat again. “I gotta go.”
“Okay. Bye!”
He shows himself out, and I change into a blue Dior dress and matching Gucci pumps. I drop the lipstick and concealer back into my Chanel bag, hoist it over my shoulder and leave.
For once, Sonia is early and waiting inside the Starbucks. She has a huge iced coffee…maybe a latte. This is her favorite place because it’s relatively uncrowded, so she can enjoy her java in peace. Her bleached hair is curled and loose around her plastic-surgery-sculpted face and she’s wearing a pair of giant sunglasses. She’s convinced people will recognize her otherwise and harass her. And by “people,” she means the inconsequential type who can’t give her the break she deserves. I do my best to resist the urge to point out that nobody cares enough to bother her. This is Hollywood. She just isn’t famous or important enough.
At least the pale peach Givenchy I picked out for her makes her look good, like she’s a normal human being and not a filler-stuffed snob. Man, I’m good at my job.
“Thank God you’re here,” she says. “You have to save me. I’m serious.”
“Okay, calm down. There’s still time before the gala,” I say, sitting down across from her. I don’t bother to get a drink. My job is to soothe her. I’ll drop a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar on my way out to make up for not ordering anything.
“Right,” Sonia says, staring over my shoulder with anxiety.
Is there a movie director behind me? A casting agent? Someone who will never hire her if she wears the same dress twice?
Not my circus, not my monkeys, I think with a mental shrug. My problem is her ruined dress.
“Your shoes are okay, right? Poochie didn’t try to eat them?” Poochie hasn’t been broken of that habit despite the fact that he’s two.
“No,” she says with a heaving sigh. “He’s a perfect dog.”
I nod because she’s right. It isn’t the dog’s fault that she left red wine near the dress. And it certainly isn’t his fault that his owner refused to train him any better.
“Jo.”
I tense at the smarmily smug voice coming from behind me. Shit. Aaron.
“I’m sorry,” Sonia says, her gaze on her hands on the table. She stands up.
What the hell…?
Suddenly everything clicks. “Did you set me up?” I demand.
“I didn’t want to, but he made me. I had no choice.” Her voice is a wail, and she’s actually holding the back of one hand against her forehead.
“He made you?” Nobody can make Sonia do anything, not even her father. I’m tempted to point out she should’ve punched Aaron. But then, what, oh what would she do if she broke a nail?
Sonia runs away dramatically, back arched and hair bouncing like a tragic heroine in a cliché-ridden movie. I watch her disappear with narrowed eyes, then start to get up. I don’t have time for this, and I’m going to bill her for making me come out for this bullcrap.
“Sit down,” Aaron says, grabbing my wrist.
As if. “You want to make a scene here? Is that what you want? White man harasses Hispanic girl? How do you think that’s going to play?”
“Come on, sweetheart.” His tone turns condescending and cajoling.
Irritation spikes. Why does he insist on using an endearment when I’ve made it clear as the Palm Springs air that we’re through? “I’m not your sweetheart anymore. We broke up months ago. It’s over.”
I try to yank my arm out of his grip, but he holds me firmly. Maybe I should talk to Angel. He’s one of my brothers, and an amateur kickboxer. Surely he can give me some pointers on ball-busting.
“I won’t accept that it’s over,” Aaron says, recycling a line all the stalkers in history have used. But I know better than to expect originality.
I sigh. “Look, we’re done. Finished. Kaput. Bye-bye land. You can’t make me date you again. You’re lingering like a guy two hours after the last course has been served. The restaurant is dark, the kitchen is closed. It’s time for you to go home. Alone.”
“But I need you to marry me.”
I can’t help it. I snort, and then start laughing. We dated for four months. In the beginning, I was entranced by his dance moves—he’s an excellent dancer—and he made me laugh with silly jokes. But we were never in love. The sex was just okay, at least on my end, even though he groaned and grunted like a pig in mud. The memory, in retrospect, makes me wonder if those sounds were the reason I got over him so fast. My experience with Edgar says yes. Because when Edgar groaned…
Stop, stop, stop. My lady parts are clenching hard, trying to ease the empty ache.
“I’m serious.” Aaron’s whiny voice cuts my Libido Express off like a katana through a bra strap. His face is turning a dull red.
No longer laughing, I squint at him. “Did you get hit by a car or something?”
“No, I—”
“Fall off a ladder? Some kind of head trauma?”
“My grandpa wants me to prove I’m good and settled, or he’s giving all the money to my brother. Why should that little weasel get everything?”